


Conclusions (Or, Three Times John Watson Analyzes Kissing Sherlock Holmes, and One Time He Doesn’t Have To)

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows many things about John Watson. What he doesn't know is that John uses his own powers of observation more often than he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conclusions (Or, Three Times John Watson Analyzes Kissing Sherlock Holmes, and One Time He Doesn’t Have To)

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any OOC-ness or Americanisms. Wrote this a bit late at night, it wouldn't get out of my head 'til I wrote it down! Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Sherlock knows many things about John Watson.

He knows when John furrows his eyebrows in certain way that he’s concentrating. He recognizes John’s tell-tale habit of squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds at a time, indicating he’s stressed or annoyed. Sherlock can take a mere glance at the curve of John’s lips and deduce what he’s about to say.

And Sherlock, of course, _knows_ he knows all these things, and flaunts this fact on the daily (“You’re agitated about something.” “You’re about to go to the pub, I presume?” “Judging by your disheveled appearance, John, you had a busy shift at the clinic.”)

So it’s no surprise to John that when they kiss for the first time, Sherlock knows exactly how it makes him feel.

“You like this,” is Sherlock’s ghost of a whisper into John’s neck, “You want this.”

Of course, he’s right. Sherlock’s always right.

But what Sherlock may not be aware of is that John has lived long enough with the consulting detective to take with him this one tidbit, wherever he goes and in all he does: _notice everything_.

The difference between himself and Sherlock, though, is that Sherlock thinks with his instinct, his gut, with each and every corner of his mind. John thinks with his heart.

What John observes is this:

Sherlock leans in first, dipping low and tilting his head to the right just a bit to invite John in. He is the one to press his lips to John’s, sliding his hands down the length of John’s arms, pinning him to the living room wall.

John’s heart is hammering out of his chest loud enough that he thinks the entirety of Baker Street can hear it. He feels his palms getting sweaty with a combination of nerves and want and something that makes his stomach flip that seems to be reserved for when Sherlock’s around. John knows Sherlock knows this.

Sherlock is running his tongue along the side of John’s neck, biting at his earlobe, nosing at the side of his face and—oh. Roaming hands.

Sherlock is completely silent throughout, smirking occasionally at John’s flailing (and failing) attempts to keep composure. And the question, the infamous, obvious question runs through John’s mind in between muddled thoughts: Why? Why are we doing this? Why the hell is Sherlock Holmes snogging me?

It’s all this, this, this and nothing else in the world and John is dizzy with it all until Sherlock pulls away, cocks his head to the side for a bit with eyes alight, before stalking away with a mutter of, “Interesting.”

What John concludes is simple:

This is an experiment. One for which, without realizing it, John had volunteered himself from the very start.

So for a moment he stands in the living room, out of breath and shaky, listening to the bustle and clanging of pots and pans as Sherlock prepares for another experiment on his list. He turns on his heel and heads to work, willing the lingering sensation of Sherlock’s lips out of his mind. 

*****

John is sitting on the couch watching telly, absently typing away at his latest blog entry. This has become the routine upon finishing up a case with Sherlock—letting mindless television drift into his subconscious while he wraps up the details of this case or that. John lets his fingers travel absently over the keys of his laptop, thinking of what to write next--

And suddenly there are Sherlock’s hands slipping under John’s shirt, Sherlock’s eyes wide and intense with curiosity and then Sherlock’s mouth on John’s. John jumps a little, all but tossing his laptop to the ground. Overall he isn’t very surprised—Sherlock does this often nowadays, since that first time. He just slips into the forefront of John’s mind and heart from where he’d been lingering in the background all the while, anyway.

John lets out a contented “mmm” as Sherlock pulls away, settling down with his head on John’s lap.

“Any particular reason for that?” John asks, absently running his fingers through Sherlock’s wild locks of hair.

Sherlock’s characteristically curt reply is, “Bored.”

He leans up again, and John kisses him because he can’t _not_ , and as he feels the sheer hunger pumping through his veins and the almost desperate way he clings to the taste of Sherlock’s tongue, as he hears all the silence in Sherlock’s kiss and notices the way his lips just barely move and how like always he’s the one to pull back, John concludes this:

Sherlock is bored. John is the solution for this.

Sherlock says dismissively, “Change the channel,” and John does, the fingers of his right hand still woven deep into Sherlock’s curls, unmoving.

*****

John wakes in the middle of the night to a whole lot of _Sherlock_ draped over him, feels his lips on the side of his neck, his temple, his right eyelid.

John pulls the covers tighter around him and says, “Piss off, Sherlock.”

“You’re angry with me.” Sherlock’s voice is low, almost inaudible. John feels the weight on the bed shift as Sherlock inches closer.

He sighs. “As deductions go, that one was a bit shabby.”

Sherlock evidently chooses to ignore that comment as he continues trailing kisses down to John’s collarbone, and mumbles matter of-factly, “You won’t stay angry at me for long. You never do.”

John tries to keep his focus on the wall across from him, attempting to get into the mindset of sleep again. But Sherlock’s kisses make John’s body betray him as he turns to Sherlock’s angular face, eyes staring deeply into him as ever. John feels Sherlock’s breath mere inches away from his face.

“You’re a git,” John says flatly, “An absolute bloody _git_ , and you’ve no idea how much of an arsehole you are because you don’t bother to--”

Sherlock closes the gap between them with a kiss, and it’s almost overpowering, how Sherlock takes him over this way, how he _always_ seems to. John absently notes Sherlock’s continued kisses and the way they don’t at all feel desperate or needy, aren’t full of much at all. For a moment John thinks this is Sherlock’s way of apologizing, but then he remembers Sherlock never apologizes for anything.

 _He doesn’t know_ , John can’t help but think in Sherlock’s defense, _He doesn’t understand. This won’t ever mean anything to him, and why should it? Why should it mean anything to me?_

John knows the answer to the last question, though, as Sherlock sprawls out beside him like a cat, one arm thrown loosely across John’s chest, and starts ranting about D.I. Lestrade’s latest murder investigation. _This will always mean everything to me._

Before he falls asleep John concludes that in the end, this is still one of Sherlock’s experiments, and maybe that’s how it ought to be.

*****

Sherlock used to know a lot of things about John Watson.

He used to be able to predict where John was going any given day just by the tie he chose to wear, could map out his body with the touch of his hands and know what made John weak in the knees. He could tell just exactly when John, standing straight and tall but biting his lip so hard it bled, was trying not to cry.

Sherlock’s gone now, though, so John supposes he doesn’t have to try to hide anymore. He stands at Sherlock’s grave, reaching out a hand to trace the familiar letters of his name. It’s the second time he’s visited this week, and a month since he moved out of Baker Street. They say time flies, but for John Watson, the time that’s passed since Sherlock Holmes’ death has gone by painstakingly slowly.

John’s wishes a lot of things lately—wishes on all the things that could have been. But what he wishes most, simply enough, is for more time. More time he could have had with Sherlock, to maybe define the curves and cracks in the map of their relationship. Or maybe it never needed a definition at all. John isn’t sure anymore. His thoughts, memories are blurred, fragmented in between the remembered sensations of Sherlock’s touches that meant nothing and everything at once.

“Git,” he mutters to the gravestone. The spring breeze greets him in reply, and John closes his eyes, tilting his head up to the sky. And then, suddenly, behind him:

“Really, John. Coming from you I would’ve expected something more . . . embarrassingly poetic.”

The voice is beautifully familiar, and John turns around, almost afraid of what he might see. Sure enough, Sherlock stands before him, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Those same piercing eyes meet John’s, strong and full of secrets John had never even begun to know. John’s imagined this enough times to know that this time it’s different. Very different.

John wants to say, “You can’t be here,” or “You’re dead” or maybe even a nice simple, “Fuck off.” But as he lets his gaze travel up and down Sherlock’s very real body, lets himself reach out and touch the man he saw bloody and bruised and wide-eyed and _dead_ on the pavement, all he can say is:

“You never liked poetry anyway.”

And Sherlock starts _laughing_ , a low chuckle erupting from a crooked smile that even now John finds near irresistible. Before he can say anything more, though, Sherlock yanks him close with surprise force, and kisses him.

John waits for the hidden messages he can decode behind Sherlock’s lips, filled with testing theories and passing the time and matters of convenience. But this time—for the first time—John doesn’t have to deduce anything at all.

For in Sherlock’s touch lies the same passion and need and want John has felt all along, and John recognizes it, _knows_ it in the way Sherlock pulls him tighter against his chest, the way he sort of hums into John’s mouth, the way he lifts a hand to lightly cup the back of John’s neck. And he doesn’t pull away.

John concludes that this-- _this_ is not an experiment. 

This is something new and terrifying and wonderful, to both of them. A lot of questions need to be answered, a lot of time needs to be made up for. Right now, John doesn’t care.

Right now, there is only this: Sherlock and John and kisses that mean everything.


End file.
